


Truce

by ceterisparibus



Series: Prompts! [16]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Hurt Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, and a tiny bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29336472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterisparibus/pseuds/ceterisparibus
Summary: Jessica Whitly discovers her son is dating Daredevil.Prompt (made me lol):  Please we need more of the idiot boys being in love. I would love to imagine Jessica meeting Matt randomly and hating her life because her son just couldn't fall in love with someone who uses their brain.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Matt Murdock
Series: Prompts! [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1334596
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64





	Truce

They kinda messed up. So, they were chasing a serial killer, as usual. But Matt was the one who discovered the guy this time, so Malcolm let him take the lead. He wanted to see if Matt approached things differently if he saw himself as taking point on the mission instead of supporting Malcolm and the NYPD. (Because the whole point of dating was having free reign to examine variants in the other person’s behavior, right? Right?)

And, yep. Different.

Not _extremely_ different. Only different in one crucial way: since Matt didn’t have to worry about getting Malcolm in trouble with his team or the NYPD as a whole, and since he didn’t have to pretend the whole operation followed any form of police procedure whatsoever, he took their normal recklessness and jacked it up to…oh, about a fifteen.

And it wasn’t like Malcolm had the sense to dial it back down again, obviously, so now here they were, tumbling into Malcolm’s apartment (only Matt’s heightened senses kept them from being spotted on the way up, even though Matt was so out of it with blood loss that there’d been _way_ too many close calls for comfort), both bleeding everywhere.

“Couch,” Malcolm said, nudging Matt in that direction.

“First aid,” Matt countered in a mumble, listing in the opposite direction.

“ _I’ll_ get it, _you_ sit down.” Because, of the two of them, Matt was bleeding quantifiably _more_.

“You have a concussion,” Matt argued, since obviously a little something like copious blood loss wouldn’t be enough to drive out his lawyerly argumentativeness.

In response, Malcolm rattled off the diagnostic criteria of the four Cluster B personality disorders, and finished with a smug, “Could a concussed person do that?”

Matt frowned at him, took a second to think about it, and ended up protesting, “I don’t even know if you were making that up.”

“Yeah, but a concussed person probably couldn’t do that either,” Malcolm pointed out, nudging him again. “We’ve wasted more time arguing about this than it would’ve taken for you to just go sit down and let me get the kit.”

“Objection,” Matt said, voice a little more slurred. “Speculation.”

Malcolm was slowly but steadily steering him right where he wanted him. “Oh, please, tell me all about it.”

Matt was halfway through explaining something about the federal rules of evidence when he abruptly realized he’d been bamboozled as Malcolm plonked him down on the couch. He blinked sadly up at Malcolm, looking wounded. (Well, more wounded. Emotionally wounded on top of very physically wounded.) “You cheated.”

Malcolm patted him on his shoulder (one of the few parts of his body that _wasn’t_ actively bleeding) and stood up, wincing a little as the movement made his brain throb in his skull. “Not my fault you’re too eager to explain your whole profession to me. It’s cute, though,” he tossed over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen.

Matt huffed in indignation. “I’m sure the serial killer didn’t think I was cute when I knocked him out.”

“Yes, you’re very scary,” Malcolm reassured him, dragging the first aid kit out from where he’d hidden it when Jessica showed up without warning a few days ago.

Matt’s voice floated out from the couch area. “Why’s your first aid kit in the dishwasher?”

“So my mother wouldn’t find it.” Malcolm brought the kit back to Matt.

“Fair,” Matt said, nodding seriously, because of course that made perfect sense to him.

Malcolm unzipped the kit, digging through it. “Okay, take your shirt off.”

Matt smirked wickedly. “If you insist.”

Matt, Malcolm was quickly realizing, was really bad at flirting like a normal person. Or, more specifically, at normal people times. Breaking into someone’s house or getting his bloody stab wounds stitched up? He’d make anyone’s heart beat faster. But send him to something like a dinner date, and he awkwardly fumbled small talk. Malcolm had a couple theories about what was going on there. Most of his dates were, historically, probably with people who didn’t know about his abilities, so maybe he felt repressed, and now he just couldn’t shake the association. Or maybe adrenaline worked like alcohol for him, lowering his inhibitions. Or maybe he just felt more confident when he was actively showing off his vigilante skills instead of trying to pretend he knew anything about wine?

“Uh, Malcolm?”

Malcolm realized he’d been sitting there staring at Matt’s now-shirtless chest for…he didn’t know how long, actually. He blamed the concussion. If he even _had_ a concussion. He’d like to think he didn’t. Not like Matt could check his pupils, though.

Anyway. Malcolm cleared his throat. Their serial killer had a nasty habit of chopping up his victims and scattering the body parts around the city. Kinda like when Malcolm uncovered confidential information and during an investigation and had to rip the papers into pieces and stuff all the pieces in separate trash cans. Except, like, taken to a whole other level. Obviously.

The point was, Matt very much looked like he’d had a run-in with a guy who’d at least _tried_ to chop him up, since there were long, deep gashes across his arms (defensive wounds, Malcolm’s brain categorized idly) and legs and sides. The killer hadn’t managed to get Matt’s face, though.

Malcolm got out the disinfectant, ignoring the bandages he’d need to use on his own smaller cuts eventually. (The fact that Matt wasn’t lecturing him abut not taking care of those injures first didn’t say great things about Matt’s health.) “Do you shield your face more because the brain’s a vital organ, or because you don’t want Foggy asking questions at work the next day?” Malcolm asked.

Matt gritted his teeth at the sting of the alcohol on the first wound Malcolm was tackling. “That, and it’s hard to reassure a client when I look like Frankenstein. Or so I’ve been informed.”

Yep. Not upsetting his law partner was definitely his priority. “You should switch to being a private investigator. I bet facial scars would just boost your street cred.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “You just want me in a profession where I can ethically consult with the NYPD so we can work together.”

“I did _not_ say that.” Besides, Malcolm knew Matt would never give up lawyering. Advocacy was as ingrained in him as was his punching-people instinct. Maybe even more so, since Malcolm believed the punching-people instinct was an extension of advocacy. (Matt insisted the punching-people thing was rooted in anger and maybe even sadism. Malcolm insisted anger at injustice was not sadism. Then Matt inevitably started talking in nebulous terms about _taking it too far_ , unable to define what that even meant short of actually killing people, and the conversation usually ended up going in circles until something finally distracted them.) (Kissing Matt was also proving to be a reliable way to shut him up. Malcolm should’ve tried it sooner.)

“Besides,” Matt said, wriggling back a little on the couch, like he needed to get nice and comfy before Malcolm started stabbing him with a needle, “I don’t think many people would be too excited to hire a blind private investigator.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Their loss. This is gonna hurt,” he added as he started the first set of stitches. He was still kinda slow and messy compared to the quick, precise stitches Matt was capable of, but he was getting better. There were little practice suture kits he’d ordered not long after he and Matt started going out together. (Going out as in, _going out to hunt murderers_ , since waiting to learn how to put stitches in until they actually started dating meant Matt probably would’ve died by now.)

Matt, meanwhile, was still smirking very distractingly in Malcolm’s general direction. “You say that like I wasn’t repeatedly stabbed earlier by something much larger than a needle. Besides, I like your hands on me.”

And that, of course, made Malcolm’s stomach flip, and by the way Matt’s smirk got more defined, it was obvious he could somehow sense it. “Shut up,” Malcolm said, stabbing him a bit harder than strictly necessary and blowing at his own hair when it flopped down in his face. “I’m concentrating so you don’t bleed out.”

“I can think of worse ways to go.”

“Yeah?” Malcolm didn’t _really_ want to talk about gruesome causes of death while he was keeping his boyfriend from dying—but at the same time, he always got curious when Matt willingly brought up anything remotely personal. “Like what?”

Matt wet his lips and opened his mouth to answer, but then his head snapped to the side in a familiar way.

“What d’you hear?” Malcolm asked, glancing over his shoulder like he expected to see whatever Matt was picking up on.

“Someone’s coming,” Matt murmured. “It’s, uh…” His eyebrows pinched together with focus. Then his lips parted, switching his expression from _attentive_ to _about to panic_ in less than a second. “I think it’s your mother.”

Swearing, Malcolm jerked back, tugging on the needle in Matt’s skin and eliciting a sharp hiss of pain. “Sorry! I just— _damn it_.” He ran to the kitchen for a washcloth to at least try to wipe away the worst of the blood. Which was normally something he’d saved till after he’d stopped all the bleeding, but now his main goal was making his living room look less like a murder scene.

When Malcolm got back with a damp washcloth, Matt was sitting up a little more, one hand pressed over his half-done stitches. “You realize you could just…not let her in, right?”

“Oh, she’ll get in,” Malcolm said dourly. “She does that. Hey, hold still.” He started wiping away at the blood, the grey-ish washcloth immediately turning a morbidly dark red. He made a face.

Matt tried to swat his hands away. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re dying,” Malcolm snapped back.

“Yeah, well, tell her not to worry about it,” Matt growled.

See, Jessica knew two things: that Malcolm was working with Daredevil, and that Matt was Daredevil. (And hadn’t both those revelations been _super fun_ and not stressful at all for anyone involved.) She was now determinedly trying to catch Matt up in her mothering orbit. Malcolm couldn’t quite tell if that was because she really cared about Matt for his own sake, or because she was hoping to instill her preferred coping mechanisms in Malcolm through Matt. Either way, it was _painfully_ clear that Matt was not as accepting of her attempts to stick him under her wing as he was of Gil’s.

(Given Matt’s complicated situation with his own mother, that was…not a surprise. Matt got all tetchy when Malcolm tried to talk to him about it, though, so zero progress had been made at building any kind of bridge between Matt and Jessica so far.)

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure, that’ll help. _Don’t worry, Mother, my friend bleeding out on my couch is a totally normal occurrence, no need for alarm, we’re used to it._ That’ll calm her right down, no doubt.”

Matt glared blindly in Malcolm’s direction. “You’re pestilential.”

“We’ve been over this: using big words doesn’t make you right.”

“You’re being obstreperous.”

“Whatever,” Malcolm said, blotting away the last of (the worst of) the blood just as he heard Jessica’s staccato knock on the door. At least the sound wiped the smug look off Matt’s face.

As soon as Malcolm opened the door, Jessica swept across the threshold like royalty, waving her hands. “Malcolm, dear, you would not _believe_ the email I got today from a would-be sponsor objecting to my chosen charity despite my—” She broke off.

Malcolm finished locking the door behind her and looked around, following Jessica’s shocked stare across the room at Matt, who was sitting there with his sweat-slicked hair sticking up in all the wrong directions…and he was covered in blood again.

Right. Because cleaning it off didn’t change the fact that he was still actively bleeding.

Malcolm probably should’ve focused on putting more stitches in.

Huh. Maybe he really did have a concussion?

“What the hell,” Jessica said.

Matt, looking deeply displeased with the whole situation, said nothing.

Malcolm tried to sound cheerful. “Hi, Mother. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“You were out vigilante’ing again!” she accused.

“Still not a word,” Malcolm reminded her. They’d had this conversation. Many times.

She came closer to the couch (Matt stiffening up more and more with every step she took). “How is it even _possible_ for one person to bleed this much?”

Malcolm skipped along ahead of her to point at the first aid kit. “We’re working on it.”

“Oh, Matthew.” Jessica sat on the other couch cushion, reaching out like she wanted to touch his face.

Matt flinched away, and turned about two shades paler with the sudden movement.

Jessica withdrew her hand as if stung, and turned pleading eyes at Malcolm.

Malcolm did not feel qualified to deal with all the crises happening in the room right now. He focused on restarting the stitches he’d abandoned. “You didn’t answer my question, Mother.”

“Oh, it’s hardly important,” Jessica said, eyes not leaving Matt’s face.

“I thought you thought everything in your life is of the utmost importance,” Malcolm couldn’t help but comment.

Jessica magnanimously ignored him. “Matthew, dear, why didn’t you go to the hospital?”

Matt remained stubbornly silent.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. At both of them. “You know why.” He pointed at the lurid scars decorating Matt’s torso.

“Oh, but don’t you have a nurse friend?” Jessica sounded pleased at the chance to show that she both knew and remembered something about Matt’s life. “Why didn’t you call her?”

“She has a new shift,” Malcolm explained, since Matt obviously wasn’t going to.

Jessica pursed her lips. “Surely there’s someone better trained in stitching than Malcolm? No offense, Malcolm.”

“All offense taken, thanks.”

She ignored him again. It was something of an area of expertise for her. “Listen, Matthew, I could hire a private doctor to keep your identity a secret. You’d get actual medical care for once.”

“I’m fine,” Matt said. Predictably. “Malcolm does a good job,” he added, like the lying liar he was.

And that as the exact moment that Malcolm flubbed some of his stitches. “Sorry,” he muttered, awkwardly taking the last few out to redo them, maybe hurrying a little too much to try to make up for his mistake.

Matt tensed in pain, making his muscles stand out in stark relief. Malcolm only _barely_ snuck a glance, and it wasn’t even on purpose, before keeping his eyes on his work.

But Jessica inhaled in a delicate, dramatic gasp, and Malcolm glanced up to see her eyes darting between the two of them.

Oh no.

Oh no.

Oh no.

“Um!” Malcolm said loudly. “So! Tell me more about the emails and the—”

“Are you two _dating?_ ” Jessica gasped. “Is that why he wants you to do the stitches?”

Oh, sure, because there couldn’t possibly be any other reason why Matt would trust Malcolm. “You’re really making me feel terrible about my stitching skills,” Malcolm muttered.

Matt, meanwhile, just…closed his eyes. Like that would magic him out of the entire situation. Coward.

“You’re dating,” Jessica realized aloud. “Malcolm Bright, you’re dating _Daredevil?_ ”

“Ta-da,” Malcolm said weakly.

At that, Jessica sank back onto the couch with a groan. “You’re going to get yourselves killed.”

“By…dating?” Malcolm asked confusedly.

As for Matt, his walled-off expression cracked, just a tiny bit, revealing a flash of guilt mixed with dread, like he wholeheartedly believed they’d get themselves killed. Or, probably more accurately, believed he’d get Malcolm killed.

Malcolm glowered at Jessica, trying to nonverbally warn her to keep her mouth shut.

It didn’t work. Because of course. “Couldn’t you at least have chosen someone with some amount of common _sense?_ What about Dani, I thought you liked—”

Malcolm shot to his feet. “ _Mother!_ ”

Jessica froze. She glanced at Matt, who was clenching his jaw so hard it looked like it was about to break. “Oh,” she said belatedly. “Oh, I’m so sorry…”

And Malcolm knew her well enough to know she meant it, and Matt could hear heartbeats so he definitely knew she meant it, but that definitely wasn’t enough to make up for everything she just said. So Malcolm, still standing over both of them, took a deep breath. “Matt and I make our own choices, even if that means getting hurt. And we made our own choices when we decided to be together. And…and I expect you to respect that.”

Jessica looked torn. She wanted to be loving and supportive, Malcolm knew; she also wanted to be appreciated. And she wanted Malcolm to stop doing things she considered stupid. Like chasing serial killers. And, apparently, like dating Matt.

Who was still bleeding out, so Malcolm hurried to sit down on Matt’s other side, leaving Matt between him and Jessica, to finish the first set of stitches. (There were so, _so_ many sets to go.)

Jessica sighed and bit her lip. “I just want you both to be safe.”

“I know,” Malcolm said softly. “But sometimes other things are just…more important.”

“You’re so…you’re so…” Jessica flapped her hands desperately in the air. “ _Selfless_.”

Matt’s head tilted slightly in her direction, like he was evaluating her response. Then he winced as Malcolm pulled the suture thread a bit too hard.

“Sorry,” Malcolm mumbled.

Jessica didn’t miss a beat. “Here, Matthew.” In the blink of an eye, she got a…tube of something. “This’ll help with the pain.”

Ugh. They’d been through this, too, the first time Jessica caught them in the aftermath of a violent fight, when Matt looked visibly uncomfortable as he explained how the pills she kept trying to get him to swallow would make the whole world distort around him. Malcolm mustered his patience. “He can’t take anything. It’ll mess with his senses.” (Privately, Malcolm was well aware that Matt’s aversion to any kind of pain relief was a _little_ more complicated than that, but he was absolutely _not_ getting into it right now.)

Jessica sighed again, like Malcolm was being obtuse. “It’s a topical numbing cream. Put it on before you do any more stitches. It won’t mess with his senses at all.”

Oh—huh. She’d remembered. She’d remembered, and she’d gone and bought special cream that looked freakishly expensive, just so Matt wouldn’t have to be in so much pain.

It made Malcolm feel warm and happy in a way he couldn’t quite explain. But he couldn’t accept it on Matt’s behalf, no matter how much he wanted to. So Malcolm just held his breath and waited.

Matt’s head was still turned towards Jessica, brow furrowed, sightless eyes flickering uncertainly over her face.

Despite all his profiling expertise, Malcolm was still shocked when Matt gave a tiny nod and held out his hand. Jessica’s answering smile was subdued, almost even _shy_ , as she set the tube on Matt’s palm.

Then she lifted her chin and set her shoulders back. “Well, I suppose I should learn to suture.”

Malcolm finally, _finally_ tied off the first set of stitches, trying not to think about how many were left. “Wait, what?”

“So Matthew can get care that’s fractionally less _abysmal_.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to fire back some retort, but then Matt snorted loudly, a small grin playing at his lips.

“Can’t say I’d mind,” he said, a hint of something genuine in his tone.

And, well. Malcolm figured he didn’t need to defend his own stitching skills if it meant Matt and Jessica were actually reaching some kind of truce.

“Alcohol?” Jessica suggested.

“Please,” Matt said.

“Thanks,” Malcolm said.

Jessica rolled her eyes as she stood up. “Not you, Malcolm. It’s for Matthew.”

**Author's Note:**

> So there's, like, SOME angst, but not as much as there COULD'VE been. I reined myself in. ;)


End file.
